Untouchable
by kestralspace
Summary: 'Mother,' he said, 'You are deluded.' Post Hogwarts. Draco and Hermione find that, sometimes, two sets of broken pieces make one whole. Work in progress.
1. Chapter One Blood

Untouchable

Hello everyone...! This is my new Fanfiction. But for this one...I fully intend to write and finish, so if you're interested, you can expect relatively regular updates! I even have a plan! It's almost unheard of I know...

Don't expect miracles here: I am afraid this is no masterpiece. I am writing only because I have a small Dramione obsession at the moment, and because I want to get writing again...after far to long. Its a nice simple cliché with some psychological disaster thrown in for good measure!

Many thanks to my lovely BETA k_leigh7692 over at Hawthorne and Vine. (If you've yet to check out that site, head over, I'm posting there too.)

Mistakes are still my own. Especially about the rating. I went T for language and potentially distressing themes, but let me know if I judged wrong. If you think I am right, I must warn you that it may go up. Sorry!

I own nothing of J K Rowling's. If I did, Harry Potter would be a lot darker...and with a lot of Dramione...

Chapter One- Blood

* * *

><p>They're seated around a table. There is no theatre in their faces so you don't know why you're here. You don't know what they want.<p>

Don't worry, they haven't noticed yet. If you step back now, away from the flicker of the candlelight, you'll go unnoticed.

Careful! Don't step too fast, or too slow.

Press yourself into the dark panelling. Feel the smooth comfort of wood against your hands, the slight smudge of recent polish.

Slide further along. The man will look to you now, but vigilance keeps many a hungry wolf from the innocent door. So don't meet his eyes. Don't. Don't move an inch.

There. You're fine. He's looked away again.

Remember to breathe. Shallow breaths, not too loud, not too deep. Merge them with the others in the room.

Relax. For this moment you're just about alright. Smell the bee's wax, and the perfumed musk of a century's worth of minutes. Hours. Days.

Now observe. After all, that's why you're here.

The woman seated to the left of him is his wife. The crest of this family is burnt not only into her pale, fragile skin, but onto the essence of her soul. It is difficult for her to remember what it was like, before, when she did not belong here.

Watch how she shields herself: she thinks her thoughts are safe. See how her eyes examine the cracks etched into the mahogany surface in front of her, how her shoulders bend to hide her ghostly expression.

Will those shoulders crack do you think, with her World's weight upon them?

There's someone coming.

Listen.

What are those footsteps? A woman's do you think? They have certainty but they hesitate.

A boy's maybe?

Get back I say. Don't get too curious. Do you want to be seen?

These people are dangerous. Their name holds an ancient power which is still yet to be broken. Remember that they walked when the Dark Lord fell, and still they go untouched.

Untarnished.

Do you feel the sickening dry strain of fear against your throat? If you don't, you should. You are not safe.

It was a boy. Or rather, a man.

Examine the polite expression on his face as he bows slightly to his mother: the look of calculated distain shot to the man he always addresses as 'father' as he sits, and then, suddenly, inexplicably, looks straight at you.

Shit.

* * *

><p>She breathes; closes her eyes and reaches slowly, tentatively up to meet with faulty fingers the damage to her cheek. The blood caresses and slowly crawls along her skin. A single drop detaches itself from the rest.<p>

And falls.

She follows its lethargic progress until it splays across the floor: a signature for this, another scar she has endured.

She wonders at their audacity. This insult will not go without notice. Do they not know who she is?

In disbelief she shakes her head.

The beloved of Harry Potter are not treated in such a manner.

Part of her rebels against such arrogance.

_ But it will,_ her traitorous consciousness whispers. _The insult will once again be ignored. _

A single sob tears out of her.

She knows it's true. Were it Ginny or Ron, those responsible would be slaughtered without mercy. But they at least are half-way to respectable. Betrayal is little less bitter when the blood at least is pure.

And as for Potter himself? Well his father was tolerable at least, and his mother as a woman, can easily be ignored.

They don't know how she suffers, the other two of the Golden Trio. _Mudblood _is the tamest of whispers on a pungent tongue.

The world is hazy. She tries to focus on something. Anything.

Ron, she must think of him. She _loves _him doesn't she? In vain she tries to focus on a feeling she knows isn't really there.

With a choked cry she pounds her fist into the bricks behind her.

_ Where did it go?_

She was so certain it was there. So certain that she could love him, _did _love him.

The devil on her shoulder heckles.

It wasn't for love that she married him, was it? It wasn't for love at all.

The bile rises in her throat but she forces it down.

She is hideous, disgusting. What is this psychological trick which binds the ideals she'd hoped to hold so dear, and keeps them away? How did she end this way, so twisted, so dirty?

Somewhere she'd thought that his pure blood would surely protect her. She had thought the Weasley name would take her anywhere.

But what use is the name of a traitor in a world still ruled by dynasties dedicated to the preservation of magical exclusivity?

What a joke.

Her name was useless enough on its own despite the defeat of the Dark Lord. Why should another have made a difference?

The walls are still in place. Still she can do nothing.

She is useless. Despite everything, she is useless.

She thinks of her job at the Department of Medical Research. When she'd started, after the euphoria of Voldemort's defeat, she had thought that it would be wonderful. That she'd help people, countless people as time went on. She'd thought that, by now, five years later, she would be climbing progressively through the ranks to responsibility.

Instead, she'd spent years watching those who joined later than her, who aren't nearly as good as her, take promotion. Just because of their blood and their money.

And their names.

She pounds her fists into the wall again and again as the tears finally escape and blood seeps crisply into the cracks in the stone in front of her.

This is pointless.

She's worthless.

It would be better for everyone if she were dead.

* * *

><p>"Sit," Lucious said.<p>

His wife moved her eyes from the table to her son as he took a seat as far away from them as possible.

"What do you want?" Draco asked, his voice low, clearly tired.

It had been five years now, Narcissa realised. Five years since the war had ended.

The Malfoy's had walked away, name unhurt, of course. For a moment, she'd believed that they'd somehow gotten away with it. Even at the Hogsmeade Trials there hadn't been the slightest suggestion that even her husband should be brought before the jury.

It seemed that fate would punish them in a different manner by toying with her only son.

Instead of taking him completely with a judgement which would have had at least finality on its side, Lady Fortuna slowly tortured her instead. The agonising sentence? To watch her only son shrivel into something so utterly broken.

She hoped Lucius knew what he was doing.

"Well?" Draco asked.

"We think, that five years is enough time to be embarrassed for. The war," his father said, "Is over."

Draco laughed a bitterly.

"You think they have forgotten?" he demanded. "Do you think," his voice was mocking, "That our name is clear?"

"Your father receives no trouble," Narcissa said softly.

Her son's eyes were etched with pain.

"My father was not the one who tried to murder Hogwart's most beloved Head Master, the one who bullied and fought for years with the so called _Golden Trio. _My father was not of a generation too young to be considered pray to such archaic customs. And if he had been, _he_ at least would not have been so foolish as to fall so easily."

"I think," Lucius softly replied, "you over-estimate their influence. The ancient families still rule Draco. They have not fallen." His son's eyes mocked him, but still he continued. "Which brings me around to our request."

"Which is?" Draco asked, sarcasm and boredom entwining in his words.

Lucius Malfoy took a deep breath. And then stepped bravely, into a pit full of vipers.

"Your mother and I think you should marry."

* * *

><p>She laughed for the first time in weeks.<p>

And then felt terrible. So terrible that she stumbled into the bathroom and threw up several times into the toilet.

Today she had served Ron breakfast in bed.

With the divorce papers.

Her trunks and a cab were already waiting at the front door, and last week she had separated her assets, purchasing for herself in advance a small flat in Diagon Alley.

She pulled the flush and leaned against the wall heavily. Slowly ran her tongue around her mouth in disgust at the taste of the bile before closing her eyes.

Absently, she wondered how long it would take for Ron to come battering on her door, demanding an explanation.

She ought to figure out what she was going to say.

Sorry maybe? No. That wouldn't work. Besides, she didn't want to have to lie, and she doubted the answer would satisfy him enough to get him to leave her alone.

He would want to know what had bought it on. And she couldn't bluff it.

Unless she just told the truth. Not the whole truth of course.

Maybe just pointing out a few of the flaws she hated in him.

Rude. Repulsive, fat, terrible sex, dirty.

She went through to the hall to find her toothbrush from her trunk.

Boring maybe? That would hurt. But then, he'd just throw that one right back at her and he'd be right.

Fuck, she needed to get a life.

She tried to remember the last time she actually went out and failed miserably. She hadn't even been shopping for months, let alone anything else. Ron was more the type who wanted to sit at home, eat popcorn and watch a movie.

She smiled at the prospect of not having to cook for him, and then laughed. She wouldn't be surprised if he'd managed to burn the house down in less than a day after she'd left.

Let him suffer. Who gave a damn?

Absentmindedly she squeezed toothpaste onto her brush and then realised another positive thing about being estranged from her husband.

If there was one thing that annoyed her about Ron more than anything else it was his insistence that everything be done by magic. If she wanted to clean her teeth with a helping of Colgate and a brush, why was that any of his concern? Why was she not allowed a washing machine? Washing clothes with magic took so much time and effort, and it wasn't like he ever volunteered to do it.

With a new resolve she decided that the first thing she would do tomorrow was buy one. Muggle or not, it did the job.

Fuck him.

She spat the paste into the sink and washed her mouth out with water. Then balanced her brush on the edge of the bowl and walked out into her new front room.

She'd unpack the books first. And then she'd whip up some pasta and go to bed early.

She laughed.

So this was what freedom felt like. She'd almost forgotten.

* * *

><p>He tossed his robes across the back of the chair and unbuttoned his waist coat slightly. Kicking of his shoes he sat slowly, wrapping his fingers around his cuff-links and slowly easing them out.<p>

The evening had gone on far too long for his liking.

And this whole charade was just shit.

He watched his mother sit down opposite him and consider him with a look he didn't like.

With a certain dread he waited for her to speak.

"Is there not _anyone_ Draco?"

He shook his head.

"They bore me," he said. "If I have to spend the rest my life unwillingly shacked to any one of those little bloody fluttering, fake bitches, I think I'd rather kill myself now and save the years of boredom and irritation."

His mother's eyes reprimanded him.

"Sorry," he said, "but I can't do it."

"But Draco we've been at this for months. There has to be _somebody _who looks at least slightly reasonable. What about Astoria, she's still available?"

Draco laughed bitterly and ran his fingers through the river of gold on his head. "And there's a reason for that Mother. She's the worst of the lot."

"But her family and connections are excellent..."

Draco sighed. "Don't use Father's arguments,' he said. "I won't listen. If I'm being forced into matrimony, I'd at least like to be tied to someone I actually like." He narrowed his eyes. "Don't say you've talked to the Greengrass family? That's the third evening in a row you've mentioned her."

"_I_ haven't no." His mother's voice was soft.

He swore violently. "How many times do I have to tell him," he seethed. "I will not, under any circumstance, marry who he wants me to unless I fully endorse his suggestion, and unless I am the one who talks to the girl's parents. Don't you know how embarrassing it is? It makes me look entirely incapable."

"Perhaps he thinks you are," Narcissa said cautiously. "After all, you've done nothing to prove otherwise for the past five years."

He bristled.

She sighed and shook her head. "If you're not careful Draco, your guilt will swallow you whole. The past can't be changed by anyone for any amount of trying, including by you."

For a long while he was silent. His hands considered his links with undue adoration. For a moment he looked utterly vulnerable. "I know," he said as he looked up to meet her eyes with his own empty ones. "But that doesn't stop me from wanting to try."

Narcissa shook her head again and stood slowly with tears invading the corners of her eyes. "Oh, Draco. We only want you to be happy."

"Then why are you forcing me to marry?"

"We're not forcing you. We just think you need someone in your life. We just," she paused, reconsidering her words. "We've tried everything. And we just think that maybe this might be the thing that helps. I want my son back Draco, whatever the cost."

"You don't think," he whispered, his voice was a silver knife through cold, hard ice, "that this might make it worse? I don't want any of them."

"It doesn't have to be one of them," his mother said slowly. "It can be anyone you like." For a moment she teetered, on a precipice of indecision. "Even a half-blood, if that is what it takes."

Her son looked at her in shock which turned quickly to disdain as he gathered his vulnerability and cloaked himself instead in steel-like poise. "I don't think Father would approve."

Narcissa smiled tightly. "Your father would agree to anything at the moment."

Draco scoffed.

"He would," she insisted quietly. "Can't you see that he adores you?"

In exasperation, he shook his head. "More like he hates me."

"Draco, at the moment, I doubt your father would care if you married a muggle, so long as it made you happy. He's as desperate as I am."

"Mother," he said, "you are deluded."

"Oh for heaven's sake Draco," she said, raising her voice for the first time in years, "stop being a fool and open your eyes."

He stared at her in shock before he recovered with a vengeance.

"They are open," he hissed. "It's yours that seem to be having trouble seeing." He shot her a look that only a Malfoy could manage, sweeping from the room.

Narcissa closed her eyes in exasperation and let the tears slip from beneath her lashes. A sob tore from her, her hand fluttering to her lips as if to repress it before she collapsed into the cushions behind her once more.

She was losing her son completely and there seemed that there was nothing that she could do about it.

* * *

><p>Hmm.<p>

Review please...? x


	2. Chapter Two Hell

And...like three months later: but here I am! Woop! I can't believe I've actually updated!

Sorry however, for the wait...what's worse is it's been ready for ages: just didn't get around to updating!

Again thanks to my lovely BETA. Her patience is amazing!

Anyway...a small Pretty Woman moment to follow...

Enjoy! x

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><p><span>Chapter Two- Hell<span>

She'd had enough.

Sometimes, extreme action was entirely necessary. One sometimes had to overthrow morals, make tough decisions based entirely on the severity of the present situation. She didn't want to do it, she really didn't. But she was, by her own acknowledgement, a psychological mess. Her fairytale had peeled away like damp wallpaper to reveal stinking, crumbling dry rot. If this was not a time to break rules, she didn't know when was.

Today, for the first time in-well, ever- she was going to spend the day blowing her money on every remotely frivolous thing she could lay her eyes on. Damn budgets. Damn restraint.

She was going to go shopping.

With trepidation and an inexplicable thirst for something she had previously so despised, Hermione almost sauntered down the high street. There was a smile which seemed permanently seared onto her face despite the rebellion of her deeper consciousness. The sun was out, the shops were open, and whether she liked it or not, she _was_ goingto have fun.

* * *

><p>By three in the afternoon, she'd lost some of her initial enthusiasm. Her feet were killing her. Her eyes were blurring and grey spots popped into her vision every now and again, and her arms were aching with the weight of her purchases, but at least she was now armed with a new wardrobe. Armed with a new Hermione.<p>

She'd decided to take the long way back home and was about to walk past _Parida, _in Diagon Alley when she stopped suddenly. There in the window, was the most perfect red dress that she had ever seen. The kind of dress a girl dreamed of when she still thought it possible to be a Princess. The shop was notoriously expensive. Even the sign above the door advertised taste, elegance and class: the kind all served with a glass of champagne and morsel of caviar on a silver platter.

She really ought not. After all, she'd already spent a fortune.

The smile on her face reappeared, and she felt lighter than as if she'd been sucking in helium.

But she mustn't of course.

Her nose was almost against the glass before she knew it. One _thousand _galleons! In her head she did a quick calculation. Maybe if she passed up on the washing machine she might just afford it.

Needing a little convincing, she examined the garment in question. The was no doubt about it. It was a piece of art. She thought it looked like silk, but she was no expert. The neckline and length were modest, sophisticated. Nothing particularly special, but the decorative stitching and the lace that enveloped part of the bust were absolutely stunning.

She allowed herself to imagine how wearing that dress would feel, the caress of the silk as she slid into it. She bit her lip.

One _thousand _galleons?

What the hell. She was only going to live once.

With a smile and a tiny spring in her step, her feet danced towards the door.

Later, when she thought back on it, she should have known. Trouble was a sly companion, but the blonde who greeted her at the door did not disguise the company she kept with it. Her hair was swept back into a fashionable coif, her grey dress of the finest fabric. She was wearing pearls and an aristocratic sneer.

It was with this self-assured expression that the woman assessed her, Hermione Granger. The opposite of well–presented; tired, and in clothes that had never _ever _been _de rigueur_.

"Can I help you madam?" the blonde said.

"Yes," her unsuspecting victim replied with a glorious light in her brown eyes that hadn't been there that morning. "I would like to try on the '_Phoenix' _in the window."

"Is madam aware of the cost of such an item?"

"Yes, of course," a frown appeared, deducing a problem, "but I would still like to try it."

The assistant did not hesitate. "I do not think that will be possible ma'am."

"Sorry?"

"You may find a different shop to cater for you, but we are not prepared to."

"I don't understand?" Hermione said, her frown deepening.

The assistant sighed, and pointed to the door. "Madam, I would like to ask you to leave." She looked Hermione up and down: a calculated insult. "The company will not allow _you _to try on the _'Phoenix.'_"

Hermione's heart crumpled.

This was it. This was it. It was always the same. The woman undoubtedly knew exactly who she was. But that meant that she knew she was muggle-born, and that, _that_, could be the only reason why this woman would not let her try on this dress. Had it been _pureblood_ Ginny, the shop assistant would have undeniably ushered her in, would have complimented and flattered her despite the horrific clash it would have made with her hair.

This. It was always this.

"I understand," her voice was choked.

The woman was unrelenting. "The door is behind you," she stated bluntly.

Hermione felt tears blur her eyes. She turned and stumbled out into the street.

* * *

><p>It tasted better when he felt this shit. He'd never really been one for Muggle alcohol, but here, in <em>this <em>London, there was no way that his parents would come looking for him.

_ This_ London was safe. From them at least. Wryly, he acknowledged that his own mind might pose more of a problem. Already he could feel it happening. From the first moment he could think, could understand what was happening in the world, he had known that he was a colourful bird of paradise in a gilded cage, but now, for the first time, the door was closing on him.

And how fast life seemed to run to trap him. What had he done wrong? He was under no disillusion; his parents' request was nothing of the kind. When, after all, had he ever been requested to do anything? This was an order. As clear as if they had spun a contract from the darkest of magic and wrapped its tight web around his white neck. He could feel it sure enough. There was no doubt about that.

He downed another swallow of that cold drink they called vodka.

His head spun.

_ Why?_

Looming in the back of his mind was the painting. He could see it now. A shrieking shrew of a woman with the conversation of a society bitch: a petty schemer with no sense of the important. A blundering matron with two little vultures in tow.

Shuddering, he downed another drink.

* * *

><p>Hermione had sobbed for hours. And then pulled herself together. She always did.<p>

For a moment she had clutched to normality, the usual reaction. Her fingernails screeched as she tried to hold onto it, but her sense of the dramatic prevailed.

She stumbled from the sofa, wondering if she'd finally lost it. Her head spun and the world was blurry. She closed her eyes.

Right.

Breathe slowly. Find a center of gravity. Still. Think of still things.

Apples. She liked apples.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and once more the world seemed normal.

Revenge.

She'd show them. The little mudblood. Granger. Not for much longer.

She'd make them eat their words. To swallow the ugly things and seal them with a curse. That's what she would do.

_ Exchange: One Granger, for something of value._ Change the name, change how they thought of her.

_ Eurydice. Orpheus' wife. _

Oh yes. Definitely. A married woman doesn't have the shame of her own name. She has stolen another of more worth to label herself with.

What fun! What a laugh! What a joke!

They wouldn't think about her blood then would they? Name. Name and money. That bought protection.

Her mind cleared.

Yes, that was what she would do. She'd find a nice, wealthy, _pureblood _of a good name and she'd marry him. Yes, she'd do that. And then they'd see!

How would blondie fare then, if the wrath of a good name were to be bought down upon her?

With faulty feet, she headed for her bedroom. It was nine, she could tell, from the dusty clock propped against the mantel in her front room. Night-time. And night-time meant sleep. And bed.

Or did it?

This could be it. Her last night of freedom. If she found the wizard she wanted, he'd probably be old and ugly. There were many advantages to that of course, but...

She glanced at the door. Not once. She'd never done it once. Never gone out, got drunk, got laid.

Well, she wasn't really dressed suitably. But that could be changed. The bags were still unpacked in the main room.

Why not?

It would be simple. Magical bars were of little use to her. Hermione _Mudblood_ might be dirt but she was still the 'friend' of the half-blood Potter. She didn't want her escapade plastered all over the morning papers. She'd be better off heading somewhere a little less reputable. A little more _muggle. _

With trepidation she glanced at herself in the mirror, but the result wasn't as bad as first expected. A little make-up and the tug of a brush through her hair might swing it. Curious eyes watched how the smudge of lipstick crept along her fingers, how the damp skin of her lips undulated beneath the caress. There was a morbid curiosity in the eyes that watched her, and she liked it.

She stuffed sterling into her bra and headed for London town.

It was no good. She was going to have to hit the more obscure and dangerous places soon and it was only getting later.

First, she'd tried a bar right in the centre of the city's bustling night-life scene. At first there had been little concern. The night was young. With a little nerves flitting at the edge of her brash confidence, she'd settled herself with a large red wine to banish them and scanned for potential targets.

She'd avoided any red-heads. Brown was too close to that so she eliminated that too. Black made her think of Harry, and that would be like fucking your older brother. So it was blondes. She was looking for any fit blonde with a superiority complex, a smirk and a recurring habit of picking up random women. In random bars. Early Saturday evening.

At least, it had been early. Now it was getting later. And later. And there was nobody, _nobody,_ who had caught her eye at all. She had all the bad luck it seemed. Maybe all the fit blonde guys in London hibernated on Saturday nights?

* * *

><p>The woman was just no good. She didn't feel right.<p>

He pushed her away. "Piss off," he said, grumbling.

She looked mildly offended but simply shrugged and looked around for other prey.

The night was not going exactly to plan for Draco. By now, he was supposed to have at least two beautiful women on his arms, and be at least onto his third or fourth bar. Instead, he was in the same place he'd started, and all the girls he'd pulled from the crowd had reminded him too much of the harpy his mind had conjured, which his mother was going to force him to marry.

He sighed. That plan would have to change.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied a slim, curvy, brown haired girl slide into a seat and order a drink. Maybe he was looking for the wrong sort of woman? Normally he was the type to chase after blondes, the type which required no maintenance, expected nothing from him and left quickly with no fuss when they were done. The type who knew how to behave but had the brain cells of a small nit in any other regard.

Perhaps he should widen his horizons. Be a little more ambitious.

For a moment he wondered if finding another type of woman might be too risky. After all, he didn't want to be strung along and have to actually make an effort. Merlin forbid Draco Malfoy ever made an effort for a woman.

Well, other than his mother.

He glanced at the brown haired girl again. It was unlikely, he supposed, if she was here drinking as she seemed to be, that she was looking for a meaningful relationship. Hopefully, he would be safe.

For another few moments he studied her. She looked vaguely familiar: the inviting curve of her cheek, the soft caress of her hair against it. With gleeful satisfaction, he raked his eyes down her. Even though his view was obscured a little from the way she sat, the brow of the bar, he could tell.

It would be worth every knut and galleon.

He watched as she drained the drink and carefully played with the glass until it was slid back onto the surface. With practiced ease he made his move. Scanning the immediate area for competition and disposing of it with a confident swagger which advertised arrogance and bred contempt.

Pulling a stool up, he slid into it. "So if I buy you a drink," he said, "will you shag me?" With a rehearsed hand he wrapped the crude language with a charming, cheeky grin.

She considered him in the dim light. "Maybe," she said.

He signalled for the barman.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"Other than you?"

With surprise his eyes shot to her. And then onto his face the smile of a bloke who's received more for Christmas than he'd first anticipated slowly appeared.

"Yes," he said.

"The same as I had before would be fine."

They considered each other from the corners of their eyes until the drinks arrived. Draco broke the silence first.

"So do you have a name or shall I stick to Goddess?" he asked.

She smiled, hesitated and then replied.

"Jane."

With a winning smile he offered his hand. "Robert," he said, his eyes dancing with mirth and holding onto hers.

She went to shake, as expected, but he captured it and lifted it to his lips. For an agonising moment he held her there, and in a deep, shuddering breath inhaled as if her scent was oxygen to a drowning man, before he brushed gently the tingling sensation of his lips against the soft cream of her knuckles.

To his chagrin she laughed, although he realised it was not unkind. Her laughter was silk lilting on a breeze.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

"No," she smiled, "It's just this is all so terribly cliché..."

He looked at her soft, inviting lips and wondered what it would feel like to kiss them.

"So every man who has ever wanted you has treated you this way?" he asked.

For a moment she looked like someone had twisted a burning poker into her gut, but then she seemed to recover. A thoughtful expression replaced the pain.

"Not a one," she said. Those delectable lips sipped slowly at the Martini cupped in her hands.

"I'll just have to make up for all their failures then won't I?" he smiled, attempting unconsciously to lighten her expression.

It worked. She leaned forward toward him, giving him a perfect view.

"Can I be a little foreword Robert?" Her voice enveloped his adopted name in a tone low and seductive. A little more confident than when she first introduced herself.

"Feel free."

"I'm fed up with drinking," she said. Slowly, she leaned closer. Her breath caressed the sensitive lobe of his ear. With a sudden innocent aggression she nipped at the soft skin there. "Will you fuck me please?" she asked.

* * *

><p>Reviews appreciated! x<p> 


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